Saturday, February 22, 2014

Blur

The train has made me dreamy again.  The constant poetry of land and sky rushing past my windows has opened something in me, unlocked a hatch that had previously been sealed shut.  From my sleeping car vantage I get privileged glimpses of life in America, tiny weathered towns in the middle of starched golden plains, glass-fronted houses built into stark white banks of snow and trees.  I am the wistful girl in the house too close to the tracks for a good night's sleep, silver bullet train speeding by, going anywhere but here.  I am the self-loathing privileged writer peering out the windows at endless herds of cows, wondering how someone can make a life from just standing still, when mine is so perfectly fueled by running.  I am a cow in a golden field, buffeted by the wind, thinking only of whether those clouds look like rain.


Wednesday, January 22, 2014

I can't

I can't
I can't do anything
I can't do anything right
I can't do right
I can't do

but watch me elegantly smoke this cigarette
puff goes in
puff goes out
gray smoke flag
waving above
my head curling
shafts of light
pierced ash
the haze
of dubious
accomplishment

I can't do much
but I can do this
and sometimes that's enough
and sometimes it isn't


Mimic

I will hide my
success in yours
bending to form
tucked in around
the edges of what
you've done
so everyone will know
I am good
mimicking good
resembles good
flattering replication
copy copy
copy the parent of success
copy the child's fumbling try
I prove nothing of myself
you I prove
I prove you again and again